


Stripped

by maquira



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Loses But Lives, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Prisoner Harry, Prisoner Voldemort, Prisoner of War, Voldemort Lives (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29976177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maquira/pseuds/maquira
Summary: Voldemort survives the Final Battle but loses his magic. He’s forced to live in confinement until the end of his days.Unfortunately, Harry Potter can’t seem to stop visiting him.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 19
Kudos: 137





	Stripped

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is not betaed at all oops, but it's an idea I've been toying with for quite a while and I'm excited to share this fic! Hope you like it! :)
> 
> (Yes! I do plan to update my WIPs. It's just been a while since I've written fanfic so I'm trying to get my feet wet with a couple of new works.)

Harry remembers the Final Battle very vividly.

He remembers the way Voldemort had been sprawled across the floor after the Killing Curse rebounded, his form oddly still. Cheers had overtaken the Great Hall as Death Eaters scrambled away from the castle, knowing their days as free wizards were numbered.

_They’d celebrated too soon._

He remembers the way Voldemort’s eyes opened again. Red, slitted, and eerily unaware.

The room had promptly frozen, laughter dissipating at once. Everyone had watched, paralyzed in fear, as Voldemort rose unsteadily to his feet. There had only been one question in the air, and it was the same question Harry continued to ask himself to this day.

_How on earth had the man survived?_

The tall wizard had reached his hands out, as if grasping for something, his movements oddly reminiscent of a toddler’s.

Then those red eyes had widened, unawareness overtaken by a panic. A ragged whisper had sounded from his form.

“ _No… it cannot be…”_

Voldemort had reached his hands out one last time before letting them fall to his side. An inhuman sound of grief had sounded from his throat, somewhere between a moan, hiss, and crackle.

And then he’d fainted.

What broke the following silence had not been cheers, but _screams._

. . .

It didn’t take long to figure out what the source of Voldemort’s distress had been.

“His magic is still completely gone,” Madame Pomfrey said, emerging from the Infirmary. She hesitated, before continuing, “We’ve concluded that the effects are permanent.”

Harry bit back a breath of disbelief.

Voldemort, a _Muggle._ The definition of poetic justice. 

Beside him, Hermione cleared her throat. “Well, let us know when he wakes up. He does have a court hearing to attend.” She looked cautiously at Harry before proceeding. “He’s to be exiled to the Muggle world.”

 _That_ got Harry’s attention.

“Wait a second—” Harry held up a hand, glaring at Hermione. “Whose brilliant idea was that? Voldemort may be a Muggle now, but he’s certainly not _innocent._ ”

“He’s basically harmless,” Ron countered, quick to defend Hermione as usual.

“He’s going to _terrorize_ the Muggle world!” Harry threw his hands up. “He belongs in Azkaban, if not some other Wizarding prison like Nuremgard or something.”

Hermione crossed her arms and pursed her lips. “Harry — Azkaban was _destroyed_ last year. The British Wizarding World doesn’t have the facilities to house criminals at the moment, and even if we manage to rebuild them fast enough, there’s no guarantees it can’t be broken into again.”

“Then put him in a _Muggle prison,”_ Harry gritted out. “I fail to see why you’re letting him roam free in the Muggle world.”

A low, authoritative voice interrupted. “I wouldn’t call it ‘ _letting him roam free.’_ ”

A tall, dark-skinned form stepped out of the Infirmary from where Madame Pomfrey had emerged, accompanied by Professor McGonagall.

Shacklebolt looked at Harry. “Putting him in a Muggle prison would leave him completely out of our control. We need to keep monitoring him, and we need to keep him alive so that we can interrogate him later on.”

 _Interrogate?_ Harry wondered. To help find the runaway Death Eaters? Or was there some other reason?

Shacklebolt tipped his head at Hermione, who nodded back. “Miss Granger suggested that he be allowed to live as a Muggle, but with guards watching him at all times until he is deemed below a level two threat.” He smiled at her. “Excellent job arranging You-Know-Who’s housing, by the way. You are a blessing of an apprentice.”

As Hermione preened under the praise, Ron and Harry glanced sideways at each other. It seemed Hermione had already started on her goal of becoming Minister for Magic.

“Now,” McGonagall said. “I suggest you all get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

“Actually, I wanted to see Voldemort.”

McGonagall looked at Harry, her mouth pursed. “Very well. But keep in mind that he’s recently finished undergoing a surgery, so don’t expect much activity.” Her stare grew stern. “And if he does wake, _leave_.”

Harry suppressed a bristle of indignation. After all he’d done to save the Wizarding World, he was being treated like a child?

And then he focused on what she’d said, and frowned in thought.

“ _Surgery?_ ”

McGonagall nodded. “He’s had plastic reconstructive surgery for his face, to make him appear more Muggle. And on other parts of the body that are slowly healing.”

Harry blinked in confusion. “Why not just give him a Healing Potion.”

Hermione winced as McGonagall looked at Harry disapprovingly. “Magical treatments and facial glamours don’t work on Muggles… as taught in Third Year Herbology.”

“Right,” Harry nodded, as though being reminded of something familiar. To be honest, he hadn’t learned shit in Third Year besides Defense. “I think I’ll go in now.”

And without another word, he swept into the Infirmary.

. . .

The man was completely covered from head to toe. Harry might not have even found Voldemort’s bed if not for the pale hand peeking out from behind the covers…. revealing unforgettable, spidery fingers.

Harry stood beside the bed, his hand hovering above the blanket and as he considered unveiling the face beneath it…

He quickly snatched his hand back after a moment.

Harry wanted closure. This whole situation felt unreal. He felt as though uncovering the face would reveal Voldemort in all his former glory, with that vicious grin and those red eyes waiting to pounce on him.

But another part of him feared what else he would find… a vulnerable, slack-jawed expression upon the face of the man who’d been hunting Harry all these years. It should have been an image that filled Harry with comfort, and yet, it only made him feel strangely uncomfortable.

Harry shook his head, abandoning that train of thought as his eyes caught on a small brown folder on the bedside table besides Voldemort. He snatched it up and began reading its contents.

_Name: Tom Marvolo Riddle._

_Height: 6’7._

_Eye color: Red (irreversible)._

_Hair color: Black._

_Parents: Merope Riddle, Tom Riddle Jr._

_Illnesses (mental): Borderline Personality Disorder, Psychopathy…_

Harry’s eyes glazed over as he skimmed through the folder. It was a full report on the former wizard, everything from physiological traits to O.W.L. scores. It even had the address where he would be staying at after his trials, followed by a list of signatures of those who were permitted to enter at any time.

_Kingsley Shacklebolt. Minerva McGonagall. Hermione Granger…_

A familiar fury began to overtake him once more.

To think that they hadn’t even _asked_ for his signature, to allow him access to Voldemort — the man _he’d_ played an active role in defeating. 

Conjuring up a quill, Harry signed on the blank lines below, watching with satisfaction as his signature was slowly absorbed into the page as permanent red ink.

He then set the folder back down where he’d found it, casting one last glance in the direction of Voldemort’s covered form before turning and leaving the infirmary.

Only to find himself back in the infirmary hours later.

Harry was still hovering next to the bed, unable to leave a second time when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Just forget him, Harry,” Ron said quietly. “Your work is over — his powers are gone. You’ve defeated him.”

Harry let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, slowly nodding.

“You’re right.” He cleared his throat, looking away from Voldemort’s shrouded appearance. Part of him was still tempted to lift the cover, to make sure it really was the man who’d been after him all these years…

But then he let his hands fall, deciding that ignorance was bliss… deciding to let Voldemort retain some semblance of dignity. After all, the idea of seeing Voldemort’s face as anything but snakelike filled him with an odd sensation. Like he wouldn’t be able to feel closure if he saw the man look anything close to humane.

“Yes,” Harry whispered, “Let’s go. I’m done. I’m ready to live.”

. . .

And so he did.

Harry went on to join the Aurors, undergoing an extensive process of training that lasted six months. He cleaned up Black Manor and Grimmauld Place, handling all other aspects of his inheritances. He visited Teddy on some weekends and bars on others, going out for drinks with his fellow Auror trainees.

He dated Ginny. Harry took her out on dates, pretending not to see the hopeful, ever so slightly scheming look on Molly’s face whenever he dropped her back.

Harry kept himself busy. He really tried to distract himself in all possible ways.

But at the back of his mind, beneath all the buzz, there was a constant tingling of unease mixed with morbid curiosity. He couldn’t help but wonder what Voldemort was doing… how he was doing. What he was planning, because _surely_ , even as a Muggle, Voldemort was always scheming something.

His mind often wandered to the address he’d seen. Surrey. Harry had never had the keenest memory, but every detail in that brown folder besides Voldemort’s bedridden form was glued to his mind.

And then, Harry thought, maybe he should visit.

Just once. To make sure Voldemort wasn’t _up to something,_ right? Merlin knows how often the Shacklebolt or his people checked on him. Hell, they’d probably forgotten all about him… succumbing to a false sense of ease. They’d probably forgotten all about the man who’d nearly, single-handedly destroyed the British Wizarding World.

Harry certainly hadn’t. 

And before he knew it, on a sunny Sunday afternoon in the middle of July, mere months after the defeat of Voldemort, Harry found himself on the doorstep of Voldemort’s new house in Surrey. 

He was paused at the door, trying to decide which spell to use before starting with the easiest one. Harry was prepared; he’d even brushed up on his Ward-breaking skills just for this moment—

 _“Alohamora,”_ Harry whispered, and the door opened only too easily. 

Harry sucked in a breath, holding back his anger at how _unsafe_ the lock was. If a mere unlocking spell was enough to enter Voldemort’s abode, then what kinds of measures did they have in place in the case that Voldemort actually did retain his powers?

He entered the house, closing the door softly with a click.

But not softly enough.

“You’re earlier than usual,” commented a cold, chillingly familiar voice, with a tone so casual and nonchalant Harry could scarcely believe it. “Did you need something in particular?””

The voice had sounded from somewhere deeper into the house, perhaps a living room, though he couldn’t see far enough to confirm.

“It’s not Shacklebolt,” Harry replied shortly, his shoulders tense and back straightened.

Silence.

Then,

 _“Harry Potter,”_ the cold voice hissed, every syllabus stressed exactly how Harry remembered.

Harry could feel his heart rate skyrocket out of habit. He tried to control his breathing, tried to control the dread that was already creeping upon him as he berated himself for his utter stupidity.

Coming here had been idiotic.

“Come to gloat?” The voice asked slyly, distractingly Harry from his derailing train of thoughts.

Harry took an instinctive step back. Despite the sunny weather outside, the house was completely dark and he couldn't see a thing. Performing a _Lumos_ merely revealed sparse furniture: two sofas, a table; Voldemort was nowhere to be seen...

Harry cleared his throat, realizing he hadn't answered the question.

“No. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

Silence. Perhaps the loudest silence Harry had ever experienced.

Then,

“You _fool_ ,” hissed a voice, far closer than Harry could have ever anticipated. 

Cold fingers wrapped tightly around his throat from behind him, appearing out of nowhere. And before Harry could think of a spell, or even remember anything he’d been taught during his six months of Auror training, he’d been lifted up and slammed against a wall head-first.

He was slammed a few more times before being dropped at the man’s feet. Harry wheezed desperately, unable to gasp enough air to stay conscious as his head bobbed dizzily.

The last thing he saw before his vision went completely dark was a pair of gleaming red eyes.


End file.
